


Misery Loves Company

by MissMoochy



Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Bottom Wade Wilson, Comfort Sex, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Insecure Wade Wilson, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Out of Character, POV Peter Parker, Pity Sex, Sad Ending, Secret Identity, Service Top, Sex Toys, Sex for Favors, Top Peter Parker/Bottom Wade Wilson, Unrequited Love, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Spideypool Bingo Prompt: [Awkward Sex]. Peter follows Wade to a bar and is disturbed to find out that the happy-go-lucky mercenary is actually deeply depressed. Peter doesn't feel like he has the tools to help Wade, but he can at least give him a fun night. Even if Peter can barely stand to be around him.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813951
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97





	Misery Loves Company

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be a good writing challenge to write an angsty Spideypool fic (because I’ve been primarily writing fluff for these two dorks) and also to write a fic where Peter is actually turned off by Wade’s appearance. Peter is not a bad person in this fic, he just isn’t attracted to Wade but he deeply cares for him and wants him to be happy.
> 
> Trigger warning for references to drinking, a brief reference to suicide ideation, the torture Wade underwent at Weapon X and depression. Also, sex between two drunk people and negative thoughts about a character's body.

Peter had a secret. Well, actually, he had two secrets. The first one was the biggest one: Peter Parker, photographer for _The Daily Bugle_ was actually Spider-Man, blessed with mutant powers after being bitten by a radioactive spider. The second was that Peter knew his friend’s secret identity. Deadpool wasn’t quite as stringent with compartmentalising his two lives as Peter was, but he confided in Peter that he’d become more careful in recent years, fearing that his enemies could use the people he cared about as leverage. As far as Peter knew, Deadpool was single (Deadpool shoehorned that particular titbit into every conversation, referring to himself as ‘very available’) but he had people he cared about. Deadpool had mentioned a blind, elderly roommate who he obviously adored, and a friend called Weasel. 

But what Deadpool didn’t know was that Peter knew his name. Peter wasn’t planning on telling him the truth anytime soon. He wasn’t trying to dangle the knowledge above DP’s head or anything. He was concerned that if he told Deadpool that he knew his name, his friend would insist on Peter revealing his secret identity. Peter couldn’t do that, not for DP, not for anybody. So, he stayed quiet.

Wade Winston Wilson. That was his name. It was a good name. Rugged. Masculine. The sort of name for an actor or a NASCAR driver. It suited him. Wade was a strange sort of friend. He was a mass of contradictions. A tall, hulking figure with a honeyed voice. A murderer who loved collecting Hello Kitty memorabilia. Somebody who had a specific set of morals and would run into a burning building to save a person, but would cheerfully shoot a rapist in the face and then step over the body and skip away. Peter knew Wade adored him. The constant sex jokes, the flirting and touching. God, the touching. Grabbing Peter’s arm to pull him along, like Wade was an excitable kid scampering to the park. Patting Peter on the head. Attempting to goose him but Peter’s reflexes were too fast. It didn’t bother Peter, he knew Wade would never hurt him and even if he tried, Peter could beat him up if he had to. It felt kind of nice, being the recipient of constant flattery. It would be more welcome if Wade was a girl though.

Peter would remind Wade again and again that he didn’t desire him romantically, physically, wasn’t interested in anything more than working together. But Wade was irrepressible, cackling out a laugh and saying “I’ll wear you down one of these days, Spidey!”

Peter had stumbled on Wade’s real name by accident, he’d been doing some work for Mr. Stark and had been looking over the Avengers database and had come across an (admittedly sparse) file on one Wade Wilson. Alias: Deadpool. The entry had contained photographs, one of Wade in his black-and-red costume, his eyes hidden by those famous white mesh patches. And the other had been from Wade’s days in the army. The Wade Wilson before cancer. Before Weapon X. He had a clear, unmarred face, with smooth even skin and a wide, flawless smile. His eyes were dark, and they seemed to sparkle at the camera. Okay. Peter could sort of see the appeal in pre-cancer Wade. He was a good-looking guy, in a B-list actor sort of way. But that was then. Peter had caught a glimpse of Wade’s face once. Wade’s mask had been knocked askew during a fight against a mugger, and he’d hurriedly yanked it back in place. But he’d been too late. Peter had seen it. And it had been hideous.

He felt terrible for thinking so negatively about his friend. Wade couldn’t help his skin condition. It wasn’t the result of messing with something he shouldn’t have been messing with or bad choices. It was completely out of Wade’s control and he wasn’t at fault. He’d tried to make the best of it and he’d tried to give his life some meaning and stand up for the little guy. Peter respected him for that. And since meeting Spider-Man, Deadpool had vowed to turn over a new leaf and give up killing. Peter loved him for that. He wasn’t in love with Wade but sometimes, he wished he was. It would make things so much easier.

Peter didn’t know what Wade wore when he was incognito. He’d naively assumed that Wade wore his jumpsuit and mask everywhere. Maybe removing the assorted weaponry before going shopping in Target. He could probably wear it all in Walmart. You could walk into any Walmart in America wearing just a bin bag as a minidress and nobody would bat an eye. But Peter was walking along one evening, on the way home from the library and he heard a voice he recognised. And he saw a familiar, hulking figure and knew who he was. Wade.

* * *

He was dressed in jeans and a grey hoody. The hood was pulled up, covering his head. The man had his back to Peter and seemed to be in a conversation with an invisible third party. Peter smiled. Typical Wade. Wade sometimes would act like he was a character in _The Office,_ aiming his gaze at nothing in particular and talking as he was addressing a studio audience or a camera. Other times, he talked to the voices in his head (the boxes, as he referred to them) and had even made Peter introduce himself to them once. Peter had felt very foolish, saying a meek “Hi, White! Hi, Yellow!” but it had been worth it to see Wade jump up and down in glee. He’d informed Peter that the boxes loved Spider-Man and had been ecstatic at the shout-out.

He carried on talking as Peter drew a bit closer and could hear Wade’s smooth, amiable tones. 

“I don’t give a fuck what you think! I’m not doing it anymore! What, you think I don’t want to kill? Thrust in the blade and feel that, ungh, that release! Hear the music swell? I can’t. I’m not doing it. Spidey would hate me. Just, shut up, White. Go haunt Daredevil or something. There’s a lot of mutants who would love you.”

Oh, he was talking to the boxes. White seemed to be the cruellest of the two, from what Peter had observed. Wade aimed a kick into mid-air. Apparently satisfied, Wade started walking, his hands thrust in his pockets, shuffling with his head down. For some reason, Peter felt compelled to follow him, so he did. It wasn’t hard. People were giving Wade a wide berth in the street and Wade didn’t glance back or appear aware of his new shadow.

* * *

They walked a few blocks and Wade stopped at a building. The sign read Sister _Margaret's School for Wayward Children_ but it looked like no school Peter had ever seen. Wade opened the door and Peter could hear voices and music and the clink of glasses for the two seconds it took for Wade to slip inside. Oh, a bar. That certainly sounded more plausible. Peter hesitated outside, weighing up the options. He shouldn’t be here. Not as Peter Parker or as Spider-Man. He knew Wade ran with a rough crowd and Peter didn’t want to get mugged. If he _did_ get mugged or beaten up, he’d have to let it happen, he was out of his suit. But maybe his identity would protect him. No crook would have a reason to think Peter Parker was a threat. And one thing Peter knew for sure about Wade was that the man always protected the underdog. He could slip in here, talk to Wade, actually speak to him without the stupid ‘Merc with a Mouth’ persona getting in the way. And Peter could talk honestly to him, not needing to lie because Wade wouldn’t ask _Peter Parker_ , photographer for _The Daily Bugle_ , any difficult questions. His mind made up, he opened the door and darted inside.

* * *

Sister Margaret’s was a wild, raucous place, the exact kind of establishment Aunt May wouldn’t want him to visit. People knocking back shots, others getting into fights. Everybody in the bar was carrying a weapon of some kind. One guy was doing lines of coke at a table. Peter almost gagged. Those tables did _not_ look clean.

He approached the bar. Luckily, it seemed almost deserted. Only one person was seated at it. The very man he’d been looking for. Wade was resting his head on his folded arms, a pint of beer by his elbow. His hood was down and Peter could see his head. Huh. He’d never thought Wade would be bald. His skin was mottled pink. When Peter was ten, he’d accidentally left a carton of strawberry milkshake in his room for about a week. When he finally discovered it and poured it down the sink, it had had a lumpy consistency and had been a mouldy pink with white swirls. He was reminded of that milkshake while looking at Wade. 

The bartender glanced up as Peter approached. He was a lean, ratty kind of guy. He looked like the kind of man who, in a zombie apocalypse movie, would accidentally get infected and then not relay this news to the other survivors. Which would cause all sorts of problems for the characters, of course. Sort of an untrustworthy, weaselly guy. Oh, this could actually be Weasel, couldn’t it? Wade’s infamous friend.

“Um, hi, could I get a beer? Whatever’s he’s drinking,” he said and jerked his head in Wade’s direction. Wade didn’t appear to have noticed but Weasel clearly did, his dark, shrewd eyes following the gesture. “Actually, get one for him as well.” Peter wasn’t sure if this was the sort of place to ask for ID but he slid his card along the bar anyway.

The man-who-may-or-may-not-be-Weasel looked at it and then up at Peter. “You sure about that...Peter?”

“Yeah,” Peter said and tried on a smile. It fit. Weasel shrugged and pulled out a couple of glasses. 

Wade didn’t comment on the free drink as Weasel placed in front of him although he did make a soft, sound of surprise that Peter could barely hear over the hubbub of the bar. And he raised the glass to his lips and took a sip, and then turned to make eye contact with Peter. His face was as pink and ruddy as the back of his head, but perhaps even uglier because his eyes (a beautiful rich brown) had no eyelashes and even his eyebrows were absent. His eyes looked too dark for the pinkness of his skin, like two raisins sinking in a lump of melting fondant. His bone structure was pleasingly symmetrical, though, with high cheekbones and a wide, square jaw. 

Peter raised his own glass back at him and they both smiled. Wade had a nice smile, two pale pink lips, full, a perfect shape. Bracketed by friendly laughter lines when he grinned.

* * *

Peter kept drinking, trying to pace himself but he actually felt like he needed to drink. He was trying to work up the courage to walk over and talk to Wade. If Peter had been in his spider suit, Wade would be all over him, he thought grimly. Wade would probably plie him with alcohol and sit there, making heart-eyes at him. Peter shot a savage glance at Wade’s profile. _Won’t even look at me. Probably thinks a non-mutant isn’t worth the time._

Weasel chose that moment to reappear. He placed down Peter’s latest order in front of him, a rum and coke, and leaned over the bar, frowning down at Peter over his glasses. “Why’d you keep staring at him?” His voice was low and urgent.

“I’m not staring at him.” Peter murmured.

“No. Right now, you’re staring at me. You’re looking at me ‘cause I’m talking to you. And what I’m saying is: why do you keep staring at him?”

Peter could have lied but Weasel seemed like a perceptive guy. Or maybe it was just the glasses. “He’s on his own.”

Weasel stared at him for a full minute, the seconds dragging on uncomfortably as Peter sat there, awkwardly sipping his drink. Finally, his mind made up, Weasel spoke again. “Go and sit next to him,” he said and it sounded like an order. Peter shrugged and gathered up his drink and hoody and sidled over to the barstool adjacent to Wade’s.

* * *

Wade glanced up as Peter sat down and he decided, it was now or never. Still feeling Weasel’s eyes on him, Peter extended his hand to shake. “Hi. How’s it going?” 

Wade eyed Peter’s hand with confusion but accepted it. His hand was warm and rough in Peter’s. “It’s going,” Wade said dully. Peter hadn’t been sure what he’d been expecting, but he hadn’t expected such a lukewarm response. Normally, Wade was all over him.

“You having a good night?” Peter tried again and Wade shrugged. God, this was like pulling teeth. Where was Wade’s sunny disposition? Had life finally managed to do what Weapon X never could? Take away Wade’s sense of humour?

“I’ve never been here before. Do you like this place?”

“It’s okay. The drinks are cheap.”

“Oh. Cool,” A burst of inspiration hit him. “Do you know any jokes?”

Wade turned fully to face him and his lips curled into a smirk. “Jokes?”

* * *

“-- and _she_ says ‘Then I’m fifteen minutes late!'”

Peter burst out laughing, thumping the bar with his hand. Wade grinned cockily, enjoying Peter’s mirth. They’d been going on like this for maybe twenty minutes, swapping jokes while Weasel brought them drinks. Peter had tried to pay for some of them, but Wade batted his hand away, and insisted on paying for both their orders. Weasel didn’t care who paid and when Wade opened his wallet, Peter saw that it was bulging with stacks of hundred dollar bills.

“Okay, okay. Your turn,” Wade said and took a big swig of beer.

Peter’s mind had gone blank, any thoughts chased away by the heady buzz of alcohol. He knew he’d sober up quickly thanks to his healing powers, but damn it, he didn’t want to. “Joke. Joke. Okay. So, a sandwich walks into a bar and the bartender says ‘Hey, we don’t serve food in here!’”

It was a silly joke that Uncle Ben had told Peter years ago, but Wade loved it, laughing heartily. 

“That’s pretty good, Peter. It’s clean. You could tell it to your kid.”

Peter liked Wade’s laugh. It sounded very genuine, not like Deadpool’s snicker and sassy asides. He wished he’d heard it earlier. Maybe if Wade had shown him this sweeter, more authentic side of him before, something might have developed. Peter might have been able to overlook Wade’s face if he’d been able to get to know him properly. Why was he even thinking like this? There was nothing going on between him and Wade. It was ridiculous to even consider it.

“I like making you laugh,” Peter said softly.

Wade appraised Peter over his glass. “Aww. You _are_ a good little actor. I could almost believe you actually find me witty and engaging. Let’s not pretend though. Whose benefit would it be for? Weasel already knows I’m a scuzzball, that’s why he loves me, right, Weasel?”

“No, I hate you. Just can’t get you to leave!” Weasel yelled back.

Wade grinned and his perfect teeth flashed brilliantly against his skin. “So, enough foreplay. You got a few free drinks out of it. Let’s talk brass tacks, kitten. What do you charge?”

“Ch-charge?”

Wade shot him a pitying look. “Oh. Em. Gee. Am I your first customer? Well, let me tell you, next to me, your future johns are gonna look like Brad Pitt. Circa 1999. Damn, he had abs for _days._ ”

Peter was reeling from Wade’s sudden mood change, already missing the softly-spoken man who’d reeled off a dirty limerick about a woman named Alice. His brain took a few seconds to catch up, and it stuttered on the word ‘johns’.

“ _Johns?_ I’m -- wait, you think I’m a _rent boy?_ ”

“Aren’t you?”

“ _No!_ ”

Wade’s brow furrowed. “Then why were you so nice to me?”

“Because I thought you were a cool guy. Obviously, I was wrong,” He slid off his stool, hoping Weasel hadn’t heard their exchange. He already felt embarrassed enough. Had Wade only been hanging out with him because he thought Peter was planning to rent out his body to him?

Wade abandoned his drink in favour of following Peter. “No, wait, please, I’m sorry, sweetness! I thought -- I just thought somebody as beautiful as you wouldn’t talk to a crusty, old cumsock like me.”

“I...I don’t think you’re a cumsock.” Peter said a sentence he’d never thought he would have to utter to somebody.

“You would if you knew me…” For God’s sake, why did Wade have to look at him with those brown, basset hound eyes? Sad puppy-dog eyes that had no business belonging to an actual, living, breathing _murderer._

“Wade. I...I wanted to hang out with you and drink with you because you were on your own. And I was on my own. I’m not, I don’t sell...”

“I know, I’m sorry, that was my mistake, I’ve been drinking and you’re a nice guy, you were being kind to me, I got confused, I’m so sorry,” Wade babbled. He was looming over Peter but the way a big dog would, something huge and strong but with bright eyes, floppy ears and a pink tongue lolling out of its mouth. Something stupid and trusting, hoping this human would be the Nice Human who would play with it and give it treats. Peter found that he really didn’t want to let Wade down. He smiled up at him in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

“It’s fine, Wade, don’t worry. Why don’t we go back to the bar?”

“Sounds good to me.”

* * *

Two hours later, Peter was drunk and Wade was...well, he was drunk too. Not as drunk. What’s the word for drunk but not as drunk as Peter? That’s how drunk Peter was, he couldn’t think of the word. His brain was normally a buzzing information superhighway or something, and he could think of synonyms and...words and everything. Fuck Wade’s healing power. Why couldn’t he stay drunk? Drunk Wade was nice. He hugged Peter and made him laugh. He sang along to the radio and pulled Peter up to dance. But now, Peter was leaning on Wade, heavily, staggering in step, his fingers digging into the soft jersey of Wade’s hoody. Wade let him clutch at him and stagger, stumble on a wet patch of floor and caught him, both of them laughing as they made a meandering path out of the bar and into the night.

“Where are we going?” Peter said. He didn’t recognise his own voice, it was low, rough but he thought that Wade liked it because the man shivered when he heard it.

"My place is near if you wanna crash?”

“Mmm. Lead the way...maestro…”

“ _Maestro?_ ” Wade chuckled, but he took the helm, his big body blocking most the night air, as Peter snuggled against him. Wait, Peter was snuggling. He probably shouldn’t be doing that. For Spider-Man reasons. Or something. But Wade didn’t mind and his arm was a heavy weight around Peter’s shoulders, locking in the heat.

* * *

Peter awoke on a bed, still dressed in his street clothes, his face inches from a unicorn plushy. “Whattimeizzit?” he mumbled and Wade appeared, carrying a bottle.

“Midnight. I’m getting disgustingly sober. You mind if I drink?”

“Won’t you just heal again?” Peter asked, yawning through his question. Wade paused with one leg thrown over the bed, about to climb on it.

“I didn’t think I told you about my powers? Ah, well. Yeah, I would heal but this is Asgardian ale. Never tried it before. Always wanted to, but...still, I’m having it now. So. Yeah.”

“Asgard? Mm. Can I have some?”

“I don’t think you should have any of this, doll. It’s for gods. And mutants.”

“I’m a mu --” He stopped, trying to remember why he shouldn’t tell Wade that. Didn’t Wade know that Spider-Man was a mutant? Oh yeah. He wasn’t Spider-Man right now. He was Peter.

Wade uncorked the bottle and took a swig. His lips wrapped around the rim and Peter mind helpfully reminded him that Wade had probably wrapped those lips around more than the neck of a bottle in his time. Wade pulled his lips off the bottle and coughed. “Shit, that’s powerful.”

“Let me try!”

“No way! This is not for little boys. I only kept it a last resort.”

“Why? Does it taste gross?”

“No, it tastes good. I...forget I said anything. You wanna hear another joke?”

Peter struggled to sit up, clinging to the headboard for balance. “I want to hear why you have a bottle of booze for the gods in your house?”

Wade sighed and finally mounted the bed, settling down beside Peter. Perhaps it was the haze of the beer, but his face didn’t look quite as grotesque.

“I think it would take Asgardian shit to kill me. Like, actually kill me. I thought, if I drank a whole bottle of this stuff, it might give me alcohol poisoning and _kaput._ Just in case it all got too much for me.”

Peter felt a judder of shock bolt through him. “You mean...suicide? You’re talking about suicide? Wade, why? Tell me!”

And Wade told him. He told him about Operation X. The whippings in the dark as Wade hung, suspended from the ceiling like a slab of meat. He felt like meat. Something red and wet and raw that had been left out to cook in the sun. Francis’s workers were constantly checking Wade, prodding him with needles, cutting into him, slapping him in the face when he mouthed off at them. He told Peter about waking up in an ice bath or having your head submerged in water, struggling for breath and thinking that this would be the thing to kill you. And then relief as the hand on the back of your neck disappears and you can take in frantic gulps of air again. He told him about waking up from nightmares to find out that you’re still in Weapon X’s laboratory and you never escaped. Wade told him that he still had those nightmares, he still woke up screaming but his sleep-dizzy eyes would seek out the posters on his wall and the unicorn toy and know he was back home. He told him about what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something so ugly, so inhuman that he wished he could hook his fingers into his flesh and rip it off, cleanly, wetly. Be somebody new underneath.

He told him about Ellie and Peter cried. He hadn’t known Wade was a father. Wade spoke with such love when he described her, her curls and her attitude, the way she’d jump in the puddles in her little wellington boots and make him jump with her. Or she used to. He didn’t see much of her anymore.

Wade got drunker, chugging down ale and cried too, leaning on Peter, tears dripping down his scarred face and slopping onto Peter’s chin. And Peter wished he could say something but he felt that he was too young. He had no life experience besides his hero work. He’d known pain but not the constant agony that came from being trapped like a rat and experimented on. He'd known the pain of losing a relative but never the loss of having a child and not being able to see them. He had nothing to say to Wade. Nothing to offer him. Except…

The thing Wade always wanted.

He didn’t know Peter was Spider-man, that the object of his affection was sitting right here, rubbing Wade’s back as Wade sobbed and snotted all over him. But he didn’t need to know. If Spider-Man couldn’t be here right now, Peter Parker would have to do. 

Wade was resistant to Peter’s kiss, Peter barely brushed his mouth to Wade’s before the man was mumbling “No…” and feebly trying to push Peter away from him.

“Why?” Peter whispered.

“I’m ugly,”

It was true. He couldn’t lie to him. Wade would know it, hear the lie and hate him for it. So, instead, he whispered “I don’t care,” and Wade let him kiss him.

Wade’s face was warm but damp, tears still falling even as Peter pressed his lips to his. His cheeks were burning hot and Peter wondered if Wade was getting that soreness that you get when you’ve cried for a while. His powers would heal it though. His lips were rough and dry and his teeth clacked unpleasantly against Peter’s when Wade eagerly opened his mouth. His breath was sour from beer but Peter’s breath couldn’t be any better. Wade made soft sounds in his throat when Peter gently explored his mouth with his tongue. At least Wade had nice teeth. He trailed his tongue over them, admiring the straight symmetry, and lightly touched his tongue to Wade’s. Wade’s tongue felt big and wet in his mouth and Peter felt like he’d awoken something previously dormant because now Wade was trying to stick his tongue down Peter’s throat. It wasn’t terrible, yeah, it was wet and sloppy and he thought that Wade might be drooling or it could just be more tears, but it wasn’t too bad. But then Wade ground his crotch against Peter’s hip and he felt something hard.

 _Okay then._ Peter should probably see it through to the end. He reached down and let his fingers find Wade’s zipper.

* * *

Wade kept his lubricant in a bag in his closet. The bag also held a bunch of sex toys and the lube’s cap had broken and oil was leaking out, so when Peter submerged his hand in the bag, his fingers closed around a greasy dildo. Disgusting, Wade was disgusting. But he needed this, and Peter was going to help him.

Wade was lying on his bed, glazed eyes looking up at the ceiling, still keeping up a steady stream of chatter as Peter worked him open. It was like the talking was a crutch he could throw his weight upon when he was feeling vulnerable, it grounded him and kept him safe. But the things he said…

“This is the first time in years...oh, fuck, Petey, that’s right, mm...first time in years that somebody’s wanted me for my body. Always sex workers. Cash in hand. They see me and they’ve got dollar signs in their eyes. And they hate it, touching me. They say it’s okay but they hate it. I fucking hate it too. Makes me feel like I’m corrupting them. I don’t wanna be somebody’s bad night. I wanna be a good memory. Am I good? Baby boy, am I good?”

“You’re good, Wade,” Peter agreed and added another finger. He was rushing but Wade didn’t mind. He wanted to hurry up, he was kneeling on the carpet by the foot of the bed, and his knees were aching.

“You gotta go hard, sweetheart. Fuckin’ cancer fucking fucked me over. Nerves are gone to shit. You gonna go hard for me, aren’t you, baby?”

“Uh-huh.” He stretched him open and Wade rolled his back like a cat, his spine clicking. 

“Mm, fuck, that’s nice. You gonna put your pretty cock in me? My good boy...”

He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He pulled his fingers out of Wade and the merc whined at the loss. Peter gripped Wade’s hard thighs with his hands, feeling the coarse skin crawl under his fingers like spiders.

“I can’t, sorry. I got, you know, ‘cause I’ve been drinking…”

Wade hummed agreeably. “Whiskey dick. Hah, been there. Use one of my things then. I can help you out later.”

Things. Peter sighed, reaching into the bag again.

* * *

He’d found a dark pink dildo that looked clean, and smeared a fistful of lubricant over it before he jammed it in Wade. Wade moaned immediately at the sensation of being filled, opened up by something bigger and harder than Peter’s slim fingers. He spread his legs, exposing more of himself. Peter squinted down at him, seeing what looked like miles of pink, scarred skin. The scars were everywhere. Some were a deep pink (the same shade as the dildo, actually), others were a creamy white, mingling with the pink. Wade’s cock looked the darkest, flushed and swelling up steadily, seemingly getting bigger with every thrust of the dildo. Peter knew he should touch it but he didn’t want to, couldn’t bring himself to do it, didn’t know if it would feel smooth or rough, soft or hard. So he compromised by grabbing Wade’s hand and curling it around his cock. Wade idly stroked himself, bucking his hips with every thrust of the dildo. A couple of times, he’d grunt and change the angle by rolling his hips, and Peter would try to follow him, make it better for him. His arm was getting tired so he switched hands.

“Ah, fuck, so good, ngh, harder, yeah, oh Spidey, you’re so good --”

Peter froze and Wade froze at the lack of movement. Wade didn’t know who he was, did he? He hadn’t worked it out?

Peter stood up, lurching a little but managed to steady himself. Stared down at Wade. “You said Spider-Man.”

Wade tossed his head on the sheet, his face twisting with misery, his eyes screwed shut.“I know, I’m sorry. Can I call you his name? You can call me something else if you want.”

“Uh, sure,” He resumed his position between Wade’s hot, sweaty thighs.

It was like a dam had burst. Granting Wade permission to call him by _that name_ had awoken something in Wade. He thrashed on the sheets, fucking himself so hard on the dildo that Peter stopped thrusting and just put his focus on keeping it still. 

Wade kept up a litany of pleading to accompany his desperate grinding. “Spidey, fuck, oh Spidey, so good, so big, I knew you’d be big, fucking Spider-Man, I love you, I love you...uh...”

When Wade came, his spunk splashed on his chest and he rubbed his hand in it, a deliberate action, smearing white mess further up, all the way to his pecs. His hips stilled but he made no movement to remove the dildo still stuck inside him. Peter pulled it out and melted lube trickled down Wade’s thighs. Peter watched it drip down, turning Wade’s skin shiny and wondered if it would get as far as the sheets. It would stain them. He was still holding the dildo, now hot from Wade’s body and sticky with lube and he tossed it back in the bag with its brothers. Wade was breathing hard but so was Peter. Peter’s arms ached and his knees burned. He fell back in a sitting position on the carpet, staring at Wade’s bent knees.

“Baby boy, you still there?” Wade panted. His eyes were closed and he looked more relaxed than he had all night.

“I’m here.”

“Don’t go. I don’t wanna be alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere, buddy,” Peter said and he rested his back against the foot of the bed, between each of Wade’s knees and listened to his friend drift off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Wade. This was cathartic for me to write. If you want to read about Peter and Wade getting drunk in Sister Margaret's and actually having a happy time, check out my T-rated fic called Liquor Might Not Solve All Your Problems But It's Worth A Shot.


End file.
